离离原上草
by Hayashi Mikako
Summary: ...and other poems, that China has written, that mean more to him than meets the eye..
1. 草

**HELLO!  
I am new to the APH fandom, so I seriously hope that this is satisfactory.  
(IN OTHER WORDS PLEASE DON'T KILL ME GUYS I KNOW THIS SUCKS OKAY)  
So. I had this idea while reading Chinese poems that I must learn ((sob sob)) and this is the first one out of probably quite a few because I make really weird connections  
Okay.  
Disclaimer: I don't own. OK. Goes for all chapters because I am lazy. Also I do not believe there is copyright on poems written hundreds of years ago so OK  
Enjoy~**

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**离离原上草**

_Fields of Grass_

There were so many of them..

He'd loved them.

He'd loved each and every one of them.

It had been everything for him, watching them grow, knowing that, at that moment in time, they'd loved him with all their hearts and he loved them back just as much.

It'd been so perfect, him and every single one of his brothers and sisters, taking care of the grass, the garden that he needed to keep pristinely perfect. He'd worked so hard, cared so much.

How good his life had been, and how he didn't think anything, just looked over the fields of grass, the garden that he cared for so much, that he showered with love day and night.

He was too naïve. He didn't think. He had only lived in the present that to him was everything he needed and he didn't even look into the future and wondered what it held. He had only stayed in the life of his, blinded by contentedness, and he never, ever thought that, despite everything...

**一岁一古荣**

_Every year one will wither, one will grow_

Despite everything...

They'd left. They'd grown, they'd separated, and eventually, they'd left him, left him wondering what was the point in life anymore.

What kind of life did he lead? Carelessly giving his heart away, and watching it break?

He'd loved, he'd lived, but he'd broken, and now there was nothing.

He tried. Yet everything slipped like sand through his fingers.

And yet, despite everything, he's making the same mistake, over and over again as each time one withers away, a new one grows, though his love never ends they leave him, yet without realizing his mistake he takes in another.

Is he only too protective? Is he really, truly going delusional—is it, perhaps, his age? How many more years until he, finally, breaks?

Why can't he just start over?

**野火烧不尽**

_Even wildfire can't burn away the grass_

That's what they say.

How can he trust that?

Every time he tried to live a life, every time he tried to start over, to take in a new nation, he'd realized, he'd realized what a pathetic life he led as he tried to do more for others and less for himself, he'd realized how stupid he was as a gigantic fire spread through his heart, tearing it into pieces.

And the grass vanishes.

Vanishes as flame and war spreads through the lands.

Is rid of the healthy happiness they once shone with.

Fills with hate and malice.

Breaks his heart.

Becomes nothing but withered, dry ash, carried by the wind, carried away.

**春风吹又生**

_When the spring wind blows, they will grow back_

They will come back.

He is there. Waiting at the edge of the fields watching endless brown stretching into the horizon where it meets beautiful blue, and he is waiting and watching for the day he sees the first shoot of green, then more and more and more as the sun rises once again over the country where the sun sets.

He is waiting. He is waiting for the day his heart will mend itself, though crookedly, and he sees, slowly, bits and bits of grass rising again from the once-barren field, watered by his tears and his sweat and his blood.

He wants them to come back.

How many years? How many years will he wait, in the darkness, as the light descends behind a mountain, as spears and swords and bullets fly through the air? How many years will he continue to stand, a wall, unmovable yet almost-broken, slowly wearing away, slowly defeated, slowly getting too full of himself and falling, falling away and becoming nothing..?

Tears come to his eyes as he watches the first grassy sprout emerge from the soil.

The sky, once indigo-black and devoid of all cheerfulness, is slowly lighting up into a beautiful perpetual blue.

He doesn't want to cry, but he does. He's sorry and he's ashamed, yet watching the beautiful springtime overtake the barren, dry fields is so much, so beautiful, so absolutely amazing and wonderful and fantastic.

He doesn't deserve it, but it's true.

_They have come back to him._

He's waited, for so long, he's kept faith and he's waited and even though every single person he has loved as left him and—presumably—never, ever come back, they are here now because wildfires cannot kill all the grass forever.

And the war cannot keep them apart forever.

The sun is rising again.

The grass is growing back.

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**ALRIGHT  
I'm not even sure myself what I just wrote  
Just  
Review  
Please  
It makes me happy  
Okay  
Bye guys :)  
~Mikako-chan**


	2. 静夜思

**Um... What do I have to say — uh, this is pretty short? I'm sorry! I expect a longer (six-lined poem hehe) chapter up soon, so please lie patiently in wait before I get that up hehe!**

**To readers of this story, um, check out my new Hetalia oneshot? Surprisingly, I actually worked hard on that one lol. You can find it on my profile — it's called ****_Crying_****. **

**And, uh, yeah! Don't forget to drop a review!**

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床前明月光

_Beside my bed, a pool of light_

Ash-brown strands fall over his face as he slowly lifts his head.

The window shades are parted only slightly, allowing a tiny sliver of moonlight to enter.

Yao Wang looks out, from his seat on the bed, the glowing orb of light reflecting in his sepia eyes. Slowly, his hand reaches out to push aside the curtain, letting a full glow form a puddle beside his bed, lighting up part of his face as the rest of the room stays completely silent and dark.

Dark, like how lost he is, like how in-the-middle-of-nowhere he is, like how much he'd love to but can't return to the right track and just live life like a _normal _person, or country, or whatever he has become now.

What _has _he become now?

Even Yao himself doesn't know.

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疑是地上霜

_Wondering, is it hoarfrost on the ground?_

A slender film covers the earthy, barren land. The sky is as black as crows' feathers, with no stars, only one circular, glowing orb. There are spiny shadows of trees on the lawn, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls.

Yao watches as more flecks of white fall, silhouetted against the inky black sky, almost glowing.

There they join the frost on the ground and vanish.

The layer on the ground begins to slowly build up, starting at barely a centimeter and becoming almost two inches.

Cold.

He feels it, inside of him, iciness spreading from his chest to all of his body, until his fingers were almost frozen in place and his toes were almost stinging in pain, from the cold, cold, cold.

But most of all he feels it, on his iced-over heart, a thin layer of snow, like the frost on the ground. He feels it in his heart that has broken too many times to properly mend, and is now stone—brittle, hard stone. _Ice_.

What will it take, he wonders, to melt it?

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举头望明月

_Lift my eyes and see the moon_

The moon.

It glowed, like a bright, almost pulsating circle, yellowish yet whitish, standing out brilliantly from the sky that was black as pitch.

A ray of hope.

_Almost._

Yet, his world was so silent, and so even as he sat there, half in the light, half in the darkness, waiting for something to come along and teach him to love and live again.

Why...

He strained his ears to listen to the almost-deafening silence. He felt his heart beat listlessly, almost as if it—along with the rest of him—couldn't care anymore. He sits still.

Is he... too afraid..?

Too afraid.. to _fall_?

* * *

低头思故乡

_Bow my head and think of home_

Fall.

The world spins.

What was he expecting? For it to stop, for him? What is he worth, anyway? Is he worth, really, the whole world to stop, for him?

So it continues to spin.

_Fall. _

He looks down, to his hands. He looks back, back into his life, the life that he led, and he tried to think of something that there was still worth living for.

He tried to put his heart into something.

He couldn't—he didn't care about anything anymore.

He may try to think of home, but at home, there is nothing for him, either.

So he stays.

One single tear slides down his face, but he doesn't move to wipe it away. He is still as a statue, perhaps frozen in place.

Chocolate-brown eyes, dark with sorrow, reflect only one glowing circle. Under the pale moonlight, he is unmoving, silent.

It's like the world—no, not the world, never the whole world (because what care did the world give to him?)—_his _world—fell.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls, and Yao watches as slowly, the wind blows and a cloud moves over the moon.

The room is completely dark.

For a moment, he is afraid.

He has fallen again.

Into the darkness.

He gets up, moving to the window. He pushes aside the curtains, yet no light falls upon the room.

He is surrounded by _blackness. _

He takes a step back, and his foot slips on the polished-wood floor.

He _falls_.

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**OMFG WHAT WAS THAT? IT WAS MEANT TO BE A HAPPY FIC? WHY DO I DO THIS? **

**Well, I am better at writing sad fics than happy ones, so this probably turned out better than it would have if China-san and been given some sort of happy ending. **

**STILL THOUGH  
everything I've posted so far in the Hetalia fandom has been depressing. The last chapter, the oneshot I posted this morning, and now THIS?! WHY?!**

**I find it easier to write depressing stuff, yes, but WHY DO I TORTURE THEM LIKE THIS?**

**Well, I hope you liked it anyway! Leave a review please! **


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